Planting Seeds in a Dark Time

I gathered seeds as a child. Ran
through the apple orchard’s geometry
to the freedom of the meadow. Pulled
milkweed seeds from green knobby pods,
fluffed their silky parachutes. Plucked
sunflower seeds from upturned faces.

I see my children and grandchildren now
from the distance of quarantine.
I want to touch their faces, stroke their hair.
They carry my seed now.

When this quarantine began I needed
something alive and growing, started
micro-greens from packets ordered
on the Internet. Radish, sunflower
and pea plants sprout in peat pots,
plastic bags, old planters.

Cut them, the directions said, at 1 1/2 inches,
place in a Ziploc bag in the refrigerator.
We eat seedlings in salads, over parmesan chicken,
in grilled cheese sandwiches.
I decorate every plate with plantlets.

The greens have gone well beyond
the 1 1/2 inches recommended.
Peas plants twine into sunflowers,
reach for my book shelves.
All seek sun.
Embodied prayer wanting
to recreate themselves.
to live, to live, to live.


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